a little bird told me
by qwanderer
Summary: Under very particular circumstances, Natasha Romanov can be soft.


**A little bird told me**

Pepper and Tony had long retreated to more private areas of the tower, and Sam and Clint were no longer in their seats, and so it was just the two of them, dancing late into the night.

The music ran a smooth wave between energetic and soft, the two fit warriors never tiring. They'd always moved well together, ever since that first battle - Nat, who, he'd learned recently, didn't easily trust, trusting him to toss her into the air, to watch her back. And being partners at SHIELD had only strengthened that; being partners in surviving the fall of SHIELD had cemented it.

During one of the more fast-paced songs, Natasha taught him dipping, only giving a few expressive but brief instructions before saying, "Okay, now," and leaning back into his waiting arms, trusting him to support her as the swooping motion brought her closer to the floor.

She could have rescued herself from a fall, of course, but it was still a signal of trust. A signal of the two of them, working.

He lifted her to her feet again, and they spun apart, and Steve couldn't hold back a whoop, exhilarated, even though he wasn't even close to winded by their exertions. Natasha's answering smile was barely more than a twinkle in her eye, but he cherished it, cherished the two of them and what they were together more than he could have expressed.

When she walked back into his arms, the song was ending, a flourish of piano notes lingering in the air. Her hair was soft around her face, wavy, as it was when she let it do what it would, instead of forming it, perfectly and carefully, into one of her intentional, almost weaponized styles. Her mouth was relaxed, not in the exaggerated way women did when they tried to seduce, but happy, peaceful, a sliver of that smile left on it.

And her eyes?

It wasn't her habit to avoid eye contact with him. She'd give him that steady look and he'd know she meant business, that he should listen, that he should follow her lead. Her eyes were usually on his when they weren't on the business at hand.

But now her eyes skated away from his, lingered on the collar of his shirt, and then her hand reached to smooth the corner down. But nothing seemed wrong, she didn't look nervous... not exactly.

She looked... unfocused.

That was trust, from Natasha Romanov. He'd never truly seen her unfocused before. Not when on a mission, not when at dinner in the tower, not when, as sometimes happened, they had to bed down to get some sleep mid-mission.

"Natasha," he murmured, very carefully lifting a hand to brush the hair back out of her face. He didn't say anything more, just waited for her eyes to come up and meet his again, and they did, from under dark lashes.

Hopeful.

He leaned in, slow and deliberate, to kiss her.

Her lips were warm, soft, and strangely hesitant against his. Given that her arms held him tight (and the fact that he was uninjured), he was pretty sure she wanted this. It felt more like... she'd never done this before.

Well, they'd kissed before, obviously. On a crowded down escalator while running for their lives. She'd been all Black Widow then, precise and confident and businesslike. This was entirely different.

He slid a hand into her hair, pulling her closer, kissing her hard, and she relaxed - he could tell because the force and tension of her confidence were back - and he felt the bite of her kiss, felt that she wanted to consume him.

Steve thought he'd let her, at least a little.

They pulled apart for just a moment, foreheads together and breathing sweet, rich breaths full of each other. For Steve, everything was her. Then Natasha murmured something.

"Our birds are watching," was what he heard, but it took him a moment to understand. Then he breathed a quiet laugh and turned his head just far enough to survey the room.

Clint crouched in his habitual spot on the landing of the open metal staircase up to the media room, and Sam stood, arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe behind Clint. When Sam caught his eye the falcon smiled, eyes twinkling, and glanced at Clint with clear amusement. The hawk, as if he could hear the mocking expression behind him, just scowled.

Steve turned back to the woman in his arms. "Let them look," he murmured back, voice deep and dark as he let himself be absorbed with her grace again. "I've had worse audiences. And they mean well."

The corner of Nat's mouth quirked. "I've had _much_ worse audiences," she said, only a little hint of dark memory finding its way into her tone. "That doesn't mean they've got the right to be ours."

Steve shrugged, small and easy. "It's their home too." The two of them still hadn't stopped dancing, or at least, they still swayed to the rhythm of the now-soft music.

"Home," Natasha echoed, tasting the word. "Is that what this is?"

"Wherever you feel safe," he agreed. "Wherever you belong."

She looked up at him, frank appraisal in her eyes, back to her familiar directness. "You think I belong here?"

"I think you could," he answered. "Up to you."

She tilted her head, examining his expression closely.

"You could too," she told him eventually, and pulled forward to rest her cheek against his shoulder. "Maybe we've both been lost for long enough."

Steve took a deep breath, feeling her strong but delicate body rest against his, and then as he breathed out, something loosened.

For the first time in a long time, the past was just the past, and here and now were more important.


End file.
